Leave Your Home Behind, Lad
by RoaringMice
Summary: A mission goes wrong. Malcolm, feeling he's betrayed the people he was protecting as well as himself, is forced to do things he'd never normally do.
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: Angst, torture and its aftermath, some violence and mild swearing.

Thanks: To SueC, who helped me with some of the technical specs for Enterprise.

Notes: Enjoy the angst while it lasts, kids!

x-x

NOW

He entered the small shop and rubbed his hands together, grateful for the welcoming rush of warmth as heat from inside sped past him and escaped into the cool evening air. The place was crowded with people, most there to pick up items for their nightly meal. Winding his way through the crowd, he approached a table piled high with foodstuffs - fruit, from the look of it.

He unfastened his battered black jacket, the chill of the coming night no longer biting through the thin fabric. The jacket wasn't the best, but all he cared about was that it kept him somewhat warm and helped him blend with the locals.

Catching sight of himself in the security mirror hanging near the till, he thought he actually rather liked the jacket, despite its shabbiness. The dark fabric set off his own colouring, and the length and swoop gave him an air of mystery that he quite enjoyed. Still, there was no getting past the age of the thing, and its condition. Glancing at the other people in the store, he noted their clothing tended to look quite new and little worn. So much for blending with the general population, although it was certainly better than what he'd been wearing when he'd arrived.

It had taken him some time to get back to this planet, which Enterprise had visited several months before. He'd picked the place purposefully because he knew that his colouring and build would allow him to fit in with the local populace.

He'd been here, on The Shade Planet, as the natives called it, for over a week. Although the days here weren't exactly sunny - thus the name of the place - they were fairly mild. The nights, however, could get cold, near freezing, and he'd yet to find a safe and warm shelter for the evenings.

He'd quickly learnt to keep moving at night and sleep in the day, when it was milder and often safer. He'd mostly drifted amongst a series of city squares and parks, trying to keep to less-travelled areas and out of the view of the natives. Although now that he'd discarded his own clothing, trading it and the last of his ration bars for the local version of dark trousers, a grey jumper, and this jacket, he'd been able to come out in public, rather than lurking about in the shadows.

Enterprise would be looking for him, but he expected his trail would not be an easy one to find. And so long as he kept to himself, he'd leave few identifiable traces.

He just needed some time - time on his own, to think things through. A lot had changed.

His stomach grumbled and he cast a surreptitious glance to the shopkeeper, who was busy with other customers, then to the people nearest him. They were all occupied by their own purchases. He reached a hand toward the fruit and quickly palmed a small piece, moving it toward his jacket.

He was a different man from the one who'd signed on to Enterprise, all spit and polish, so concerned about propriety, formality, and doing what was right. He hesitated, staring down at the frayed bandage on the hand holding the fruit. He hadn't done the "right" thing in some time.

Replacing the fruit and letting his hand fall away, Malcolm Reed, former Starfleet officer, turned and left the shop.

x-x

Sitting on the low wall, Malcolm leaned his back against the building and let the streams of people pass him by as they hurried who knew where. None of them even seemed to see him. It had always amazed him how easy it was to hide in plain sight if one looked the part.

His stomach grumbled, yet again announcing that he was hungry. At this point he almost regretted having traded away his last ration bar. With no money and, as he'd learnt in the store, unwilling to steal, he hadn't yet eaten that day. Or yesterday for that matter.

Eyes down, he picked at the edge of the bandage on his right hand. His palm hurt with a low, dull ache. He turned his hand over, palm up, and pressed at the wound, hitching in a breath at the sharpness of the pain. It hurt, but at least it wasn't bleeding any longer. He closed a fist around the dirty, greyed covering.

The scent of cooking food hit him with a strength and suddenness that almost knocked him over, and his head flew up. There was a restaurant across the street, and its door had opened to let patrons in, releasing those food smells. He literally felt faint, taking several deep breaths as he tried to get himself together.

He was seriously considering rummaging through the bins behind the restaurant when someone approached him, and he looked up warily, tense and ready for anything.

"My name is Dzohn," the man said, his brown eyes serious as he studied Malcolm. He pushed his light hair back with an impatient hand. Waving toward the space on the wall beside Malcolm, he asked, "Mind?"

Malcolm shrugged and watched as the man sat.

"You were here yesterday," the man said, more of a statement than a question.

Malcolm's breath caught and he tried to school his expression. This man had been watching him? For how long? And why?

"I work with an organisation which helps people in need find shelter and..."

"I'm not homeless," Malcolm said, cutting him off.

Dzohn looked at him appraisingly. "Okay." The man stood again, obviously sensing that he was not welcome. "We run a place just off Sinjames. Not far, no cost, no questions asked."

There was another waft from the restaurant, and Malcolm felt his eyes drawn toward it. It was like torture. He'd have to move. Eyes locked on the restaurant, he stood woozily and lifted a steadying hand to the wall beside him.

"When was the last time you ate?"

Now Malcolm fully looked at the man. He found no sympathy there, no pity, and no disgust either; just a calm, assessing gaze.

"We have food," Dzohn said, reaching into his back pocket. He handed Malcolm a piece of paper, about the size of a playing card. "This will let you in. Show it at the door."

Dzohn stepped away and approached another person sitting on a nearby bench.

Malcolm turned the card round and round in his hand. Life certainly had taken a turn.


	2. Chapter 2

_This site seemed to be having some issues yesterday, when I posted chapter 1. I know a lot of you got error messages when trying to access this story. Thanks for letting me know._

_Chapter 1 seems to be working now, and so I'm posting chapter 2, hoping this will also work._

x-x

THEN

Malcolm crouched behind the thicket, his weapon drawn and held loosely in his grasp as sweat trickled down his back. He could clearly see Trip and Hoshi ahead of him in the misty clearing, the humidity softening the edges of the scene despite his being almost on top of them. In fact, he was so close to their position that he was unable to move or signal Enterprise without giving himself away.

Hoshi and Trip stood surrounded by four armed men of a species that Malcolm didn't know. Each one was humanoid, scales a variety of shades of iridescent green shimmering across their sinewy bodies. Otherwise they had no distinguishing marks that he recognised, and were wearing no uniforms.

They'd grabbed his crewmates while he'd been returning from a bio break. Because damn it, this was supposed to be a peaceful mission, and he'd only left them for a moment - a moment that made all the difference.

Malcolm's thoughts were interrupted when one of the aliens spoke, his voice a low guttural sound that came in fits and starts across Hoshi's translation device. "You are from Enterprise, yes?" the man said, more of a statement than a question. He ran a knife along the edge of Trip's jaw.

Trip stood defiantly and did not answer, although Malcolm could see a flicker in his eyes as the alien twitched his wrist, allowing the knife to cut into Trip's skin. The blood stood starkly on Trip's suddenly pale face, then began its slow progress downward.

He heard Hoshi give a soft gasp, then saw her still when the man holding her arms gave a sharp tug.

"There is information we need." The alien flicked again, drawing another drop of Trip's blood. "About your technologies. About your planet of origin."

"Who are you?" Trip finally asked, his eyes gone cold.

"Who we are does not matter. It's who we represent that is important." The alien twisted its expression into what Malcolm assumed was its version of a smile, then stepped in closer to Trip, face inches away. "Some friends of yours. I believe you call them 'Xindi'."

Malcolm almost moved in his shock and surprise. The Xindi? How in the world had they found them down here? And why had they waited until now? They'd been here for days, and the Captain and T'Pol had only just returned to the ship an hour ago. They must have been trailing them for some time, waiting for an opportunity. An opportunity that they got when Malcolm stepped away.

Malcolm's focus returned to the scene before him when the alien again spoke. "You will tell us what we need to know. Where is your planet?" He flicked the knife, nicking Trip's cheek. "What are your weapons systems?" He flicked again, and a second mark joined the first.

"I will not -

That was as far as Trip got before the alien moved, faster than Malcolm would have thought possible, shoving the blade through the meat of Trip's arm, across and then down. Trip fell to the ground, trying to bite back his scream as blood flowed down his arm, staining his sleeve.

The man pulled the knife away with a flourish. Malcolm saw Hoshi's eyes widen in shock as she paled.

He felt his body tremble when the knife wielder moved toward Hoshi. He'd never get a shot off in time. The aliens were too fast - by the time he'd shoot their leader, another would have got to Trip, or Hoshi. He had only one choice.

"We do not want to kill you," the alien said, now directing his comments to Hoshi. "But we do have ways of making this quite...unpleasant." He twirled the knife, fingers moving faster than Malcolm could follow.

"That's enough," Malcolm said loudly, standing from his cover. He held his weapon in his hand, pointed at the man. "Let them go," he said, his voice firm.

The alien twisted his face into the not-smile again, and cocked his head. "Why?"

"Because they don't have the information you need," Malcolm said, taking a cautious step forward.

"Stop," one of the other aliens ordered, raising an angry looking rifle. "Give over your weapon."

Malcolm flipped his gun so that it was butt-out, and a third alien took it from his hand. Malcolm locked his eyes with those of their leader. "They don't know anything." He pointed first to Trip, then to Hoshi. "He's just a figurehead, and she's our bloody linguist."

The alien with the knife shifted again, his movements a blur. It was as if Malcolm blinked and the man was behind Hoshi, knife to her arm, just at the point where he'd cut Trip. The alien whispered to Hoshi, his voice an oily rasp, "Is this so?" He slowly inserted the knife into her arm and she closed her eyes, the pain obvious from her expression.

"No," Trip tried to say, but Malcolm cut him off with a movement. He took another step forward, right into the sightline of the leader, purposefully drawing his attention from Hoshi and Trip.

"I'm the tactical officer," Malcolm said, his heart racing. "If you want someone, you want me."

Eyes on Malcolm, the leader twisted the knife where it stood in Hoshi's flesh, and she bit back a gasp. "And you have the information that they do not?"

Malcolm nodded. "I do."

"And you will give it to us."

"Let them go," Malcolm said with a quick glance at Trip.

Trip was staring at him, eyes blazing. He gave a short, sharp shake of his head.

"And you will give the information to us?" the alien repeated.

"I will," Malcolm said without hesitation.

This time Trip did speak, a barked, "No," but Malcolm didn't even look at him, keeping his eyes on the leader.

The alien slid the knife from Hoshi's arm and pushed her away. She landed in the dirt by Trip.

"Don't do this, Malcolm," Trip said. When Malcolm still didn't look his way, he added, "That's an order, Lieutenant."

Malcolm felt strong arms grab him from behind, and he finally looked at Trip. Trip was staring at him with an expression that he couldn't interpret - anger, betrayal, and something else.

"I have to..." Malcolm began before he felt a shock and his world went dark around him.

x-x

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	3. Chapter 3

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x-x

Malcolm's hand shook as he pulled the bottle down from his shelf, pouring himself a glass of the amber liquid. It had been three days before Enterprise got him out of there. Three days he'd stood up to them, giving them nothing, and then, when he could no longer keep quiet, giving them non-information that seemed like genuine intelligence, trying to throw them off the trail.

Leaving the bottle open on his desk, he slumped onto his bed. Back to the bulkhead, he pulled his legs up in front of him and, forearm resting on his knee, he swirled the liquid in the glass dangling from his hand.

The first day had been taken up with a series of repeated questions, which quickly escalated into physical abuse. His eyes drifted to the back of his hand, tracing the long white scars that now ran from his knuckles to his wrist, then followed a line up and under his sleeve. He had similar marks on his feet, ankles, legs...

He blinked, and they were gone.

He remembered the pain. They'd used a knife. He remembered watching as they used it to carve designs into his flesh. They hadn't let him look away, or close his eyes. And after each session, they would pass a tiny device over the damage, and it would knit itself, leaving his skin unmarked. It was remarkable, really. Phlox would have been impressed.

He took a quick sip from his glass.

On the second day, they began using a small, round, ball-shaped device, its dark blue surface completely smooth and shiny.

He remembered the feeling as it had touched his temple; each instance starting with a shock of cold. It did something to him, something toxic and painful. He could still feel the cold as it had touched his temple, and the questions would start again, each one becoming progressively harder to defend against.

And then they started with the drugs.

On the third day they found the drug that broke him, shattering him into a million pieces, and when they next touched the cold surface of the ball to his temple the words flowed from him like water. He had no idea what he'd ended up saying, and no memories of what happened next. He'd woken in sickbay... No, that wasn't accurate. His first memories were of being bombarded with a series of questions being posed to him by an angry-looking Captain Archer, Trip at his side with his arm in a sling. He'd learned later that he'd been found on the planet, dumped, unconscious, in the clearing from which he'd been taken. The marauders had apparently got what they needed from him, and left him there like so much rubbish.

Archer was grilling him with Trip standing there, his mere presence an accusation, and Malcolm, half in dream, told them yes, he'd told the aliens everything.

Since then, his life had changed.

Shaking his head, he looked down into his glass, its liquid glinting in the dim light. At least they'd left him this. They'd left him little else.

He was on report. There would be a formal inquiry, once they got closer to Earth and could communicate with Starfleet. If they got to Earth before the Xindi.

He was confined to quarters, and Archer was treating him like a criminal. Perhaps worse, Trip rarely visited, and when he did, he spoke to him formally, officially, all pretence of friendship gone.

They would call him a traitor. Perhaps he was.

He didn't object to their accusations, didn't fight. In their position, he'd probably do the same.

He could see where he'd gone wrong - he'd let them become friends. He'd reacted as he had in the situation - going against a direct order, putting vital information into the hands of the enemy - because he'd been protecting friends. Now he couldn't even establish enough distance to see what he'd have done differently, had his judgement not been clouded by the friendship. In the process of saving them, he'd ended up betraying them, his ship, his home, and even himself.

Despite Phlox pronouncing him well, he still felt broken.

Lifting the glass to his lips, he finished the drink.

x-x

Four impulse torpedo launchers, four phase cannon, five hundred gig of...

Stats and figures rattled off in a monotone while Trip's face hovered above him, eyes flashing in anger.

...three prototypes built, the first...

"Stop talking," Trip said, his voice accusing. "You are betraying us all. Betraying me." His face twisted in disgust. "How could you?"

Malcolm felt a surge of rage and next he knew, he was up, hands around Trip's neck, completely calm as he squeezed, his knuckles going white from the pressure.

...Deflectors powered by a combination of...

Malcolm jerked awake, the glass tumbling from his hand, off the bed and onto the floor with a thud. He'd been having variations on the same dream since he'd come back to Enterprise: his voice droning facts and figures about the ship, their weaponry, Earth's planetary defences; Trip's face before him; his hands around Trip's neck...

Heart pounding, he slid off the bed and stood. The dream had left him shaken, and he knew from experience that sleep would be impossible. Eschewing the glass on the floor, he reached for the bottle, taking a long sip directly from its mouth.

Rubbing his temple, he stepped to his window and stared out at the darkness. He'd betrayed them. He must have. After all, why would the aliens have let him go if he hadn't given them what they needed? He wished that he could remember.

He shook his head quickly. No.

No.

He took another sip from the bottle.

He was grateful he did not.

x-x

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	4. Chapter 4

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x-x

Malcolm pushed his book aside and, springing up from his mattress, began pacing the distance of his room. Fourteen steps to one wall. Turn. Fourteen to the other. Turn.

He was going stir-crazy. He'd been confined to quarters for days. He'd been blocked from accessing ship's systems, his computer disconnected from the ship's network. He'd read all his books. He'd even gone through his laundry, sorting out the items that needed repair. And it was now... he glanced at the clock on the nightstand ...Oh-Three-Hundred hours, three in the bloody morning, and he... God, he was exhausted, but he'd really rather not... the dreams alone...

The isolation and boredom were combining to drive him to madness. He spent the best part of each day alone, and he was running out of things to do. What little he did find, he couldn't manage to focus on; a combination of restlessness anxiety and too little sleep.

Four days, his only visitors being Archer - those visits a formality - and Trip.

He wasn't sure why Trip came.

Their meetings were always short and formal, no more than an official-seeming check in, and yet behind the formality, Malcolm could read Trip's anguish and confusion. Malcolm never spoke of what he saw, knowing that Trip preferred to keep the distance he'd established. It would be pointless anyway. Malcolm would be gone soon enough.

Being confined to quarters was entirely understandable. Hell, he'd have done worse: put himself in the brig. No - any traitor he'd discovered, he'd have... Being in the brig would be a blessing when weighed against what he'd probably do to someone who'd...

He froze in his tracks. Spinning, he entered the lav and faced himself in the mirror, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the weary slump of his shoulders.

They didn't trust him. They shouldn't trust him. Hell, he wasn't sure that he could trust himself. Lifting a hand to his temple, he pressed his fingers there. He could still feel the cool of the device, a ghost of sensation against his skin. It was phantom. But the headache was real enough.

Opening his medicine chest, he pulled down a bottle, shaking a couple of pills into his hand. Popping them into his mouth, he leaned down and swallowed them with water from the tap.

He stepped back into his room and grabbed the liquor bottle from his desk, downing the rest of its contents in two fast gulps.

Returning to his bed, he dimmed the lights and sat back against the wall. He stared into the darkened room, trying not to think...

...Releasing his grip, he left Trip on the floor, dead. Grabbing the man's weapon, he turned and...

Hoshi was there, surprise on her face. The blue globe was still in her hand.

He frowned. Then he smiled. He'd be glad to see her dead. What she'd done to him, torturing him, he'd be glad to see her...

Lifting the weapon, he...

He fired.

Two-hundred-thirty metres long, one-hundred-thirty-five-point-eight metres wide, four impulse torpedo launchers...

x-x

Malcolm woke, facts and figures tumbling through his head, Hoshi's and Trip's faces before his eyes. Frantic, he pushed away from the bed and started pacing. He marched to one wall, placed both palms against it and pushed off. He turned and paced to the other wall and repeated the process, stalking like a caged animal, which in a way he supposed he was.

He needed to get away from all this. Maybe he could take leave?

He shook his head, still moving. There was no way they'd grant him leave; not now, not with the disciplinary filings coming up. He'd have to wait until they returned to Earth to make a formal request, and that would be too long.

And what was the point of taking an official leave? His career was already falling in shards around him. It was pointless to take leave and then come back to all this.

Turning toward the door, he slapped his palm against the comm. on the wall. "Phlox?" he asked, his voice raspy from disuse.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Phlox replied after a moment.

"I could use something to help me sleep." He leaned a bent arm against the wall and let his forehead rest against it, not bothering to listen to the doctor's reply. Perhaps Phlox's drugs would numb him enough that he wouldn't dream, and he could get some bloody sleep. To sleep and forget, if only for a few hours.

x-x

Malcolm woke feeling drowsy and lethargic. Glancing at the clock, he was grateful to see that he'd been asleep for several hours. He still felt tired, although he was unsure if it was from Phlox's medication, or if forgotten nightmares had plagued him despite the drugs.

He shifted his hands on the blanket and hissed in pain. Arms up in front of his face, he saw long red welts on the back of his left hand, going from his knuckles, down the back of his wrist, and up and under his pyjama top, lines tracing the pattern of his imagined scars. With an intake of breath, he noticed blood under the fingernails of his right hand. Good lord.

There was a knock at the door, and he realised that's what had woken him. Almost no one knocked.

"Yes?" he called out in response, sitting up on the bed. He tucked his left hand under the blanket.

The door slid open and Trip stood there. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." He glanced at the clock, the bare hint of a smile on his lips. "I didn't expect you'd be sleeping at noon."

"I've not much else to do," Malcolm said, his voice flat.

Trip's smile flew away. "Can I come in?"

Malcolm shrugged, knowing that he wasn't making this easy, and watched as Trip entered. As Trip approached the desk, Malcolm saw him notice the empty liquor bottle tipped onto its side, and he saw something flicker briefly across Trip's face.

By the time Trip had sat in the desk chair, he'd slipped back into his formal "commander" guise.

"What happened on the planet?" Trip asked, his face a study in granite.

"You know I'm not supposed to discuss this until the formal investigation begins," Malcolm said, just as he realised that this was the first time he remembered Trip actually asking this question. Until now, he'd simply stood silently behind Archer as the captain had interrogated him.

"I thought you were my friend, Malcolm. You disobeyed my order, then you..." Trip's formal demeanour crumpled, leaving him looking betrayed and defeated. "God, you told them where Earth was." He leaned forward in the chair. "How could you?"

Malcolm stared into Trip's eyes, unable to answer. He didn't know how he could have done that himself. He had come out of there with barely a mark on him, Phlox saying that he'd found no damage, no traces of chemicals, nothing that would have caused him to... But then there were the half remembered drugs, and the torture, and... His left hand flew from under the blanket and up to his temple as he felt something cool being placed there.

He'd simply broken, shattered there before them, and told them everything - the location of Earth, the specs on their weapons programs, everything they asked.

Trip's expression shifted to one of disgust, and he got up. He shook his head and his eyes closed briefly before he turned away.

Hesitating in the doorway, his back to Malcolm, he made a sound as if he were about to say something but had cut himself off. Triggering the door, he left.

x-x

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	5. Chapter 5

_Star Trek's 40th anniversary. Whoo-hoo! _

x-x

Malcolm slipped the knife into Trip's arm and glanced at Hoshi, smiling at her look of horror and revulsion. Just beyond her shoulder, he noticed a slight rustling in the brush, and someone stood. It was a reflection of himself, and he locked eyes with it, enjoying the horror there as he slid the knife down and out of Trip's flesh. Eyes still on his mirror-self, he approached Hoshi...

Malcolm woke with a door in front of him. He blinked in confusion. He'd just been in bed in his quarters, and now he was...where was he?

His vision cleared and he realised that was standing in front of someone's room. Hoshi's. Hoshi's quarters, and he could feel the tension radiating through his body, his breath coming fast and harsh to his ears.

His hand hurt, and he looked down at it, dazed. It was red, and there was warmth... the only warm thing about him. He was bloody near freezing. Lowering his gaze further, he realised that he was clad only in pyjamas.

Something warm hit the top of his bare foot and he looked down. Another drop fell, this one hitting the floor beside him. Blood.

He looked again at his hand and realised that his palm was wrapped around a knife blade, fingers clenched so tightly they were white with the pressure. He recognised the knife - it was the one his father had given him for his thirteenth birthday, which he'd kept hidden at the bottom of his footlocker. He opened his hand and let the blade drop. Head sinking down, he put a bloody hand to the wall beside Hoshi's door. Good lord, what was he doing here? He'd come here with a knife, and he didn't remember...

He remembered the dream and his stomach dropped.

He'd been trying to kill Hoshi. He'd already hurt Trip, and he'd been... What kind of a monster...

Heart in his throat, he turned and ran.

Malcolm raced down the corridor, mostly empty for night shift, not caring if people saw him. His bare feet pounded the deck plating. Nothing made sense. He felt like it used to - hell, he remembered that it did, but something had changed, and he wasn't entirely sure what. He just knew he couldn't stay here. He was clearly a danger to others. To Hoshi. Maybe to Trip.

He couldn't remember if he had already gone to Trip's quarters. He didn't want to know. He remembered sticking the knife into Trip's arm, drawing it down. Enjoying it, enjoying his screams. Knowing that Hoshi was next... He shook his head to rid himself of the imagery.

Entering the launch bay, he crouched on the deck beside the door, checking for anyone in the room. It was still and silent around him, the bay almost empty of equipment - there must be a team on a mission, which meant that attention would be on mission control, not this launch bay.

He placed a hand on the plating below him, cool to the touch, his blood smearing there as he pushed off and ran for the lone shuttle in the bay.

Leaping into the ship, he slid into the pilot's seat and readied for take off, ignoring the steady stream of doubts and incriminations in his head. Triggering lift-off, he heard a voice across the ship's comm.

Malcolm reached out with an unsteady hand and shut it off. Eyes to the stars, he made his escape.

x-x

NOW

Malcolm stood outside the door of the shelter, running through the reasons why he should leave, rather than going in. He wasn't homeless. Well, technically he was. But he could take care of himself. He rolled his eyes. Yeah, that'd been working quite well lately, thank you.

He'd had a time of it, even getting to this planet. After leaving Enterprise, he'd left the shuttle on the first planet he reached, setting its beacon so Enterprise could find it. Taking only what simple items he could carry in one of the shuttle's packs, he hitched a ride to the next system, trading one of the blankets he'd taken for a pair of boots. Then on to the next, trading additional trinkets until he'd finally reached The Shade Planet, supplies exhausted.

He lifted a hand to the door and laid his palm flat against its surface. End of the road.

It was the smell of the coffee that finally did him in, and he pulled open the door to a burst of warmth, light and noise.

Malcolm stood just inside the door of the... well, he supposed it was a cafeteria of some sort. There was a series of long tables filling the room, each one crowded with people eating and talking. Too many people for his taste, in too enclosed a space. A man brushed against him as he passed, and Malcolm, tension escalating, almost turned and left.

Then he smelled the food.

The counter along the far wall was piled with plates and trays full of various unidentifiable foodstuffs, and Malcolm's feet took him there before he could even think. Avoiding all eyes, he took a plate and piled it high with unidentifiable things that he thought were probably breads, despite their deep purple colour, as well as something yellowish that reminded him of potato. He poured a mug of something that wasn't-quite-coffee.

He sat at the table closest to him, avoiding the gazes of the others already there. As the table fell silent around him, he put his plate down and lifted the mug to his mouth, the cup shaking slightly in his hands. He took a sniff, then a sip. The hot liquid tasted of bitter and dark, warming him from the inside out. Mug to the table, he ripped off a bit of the bread and ate it. He closed his eyes at the sensation as he chewed, then swallowed. It could be the worst bread in the world, but bloody hell, that was good. Eyes to his plate, he took another piece, careful to go slowly.

Grasping his cup to take another sip, he felt, rather than saw, someone sit beside him. Malcolm glanced at him, then away. It was the man who'd invited him here: Dzohn. Malcolm tried to ignore the presence, but he could feel eyes on him so he finally turned, eyebrow raised.

"Same deal, every night," Dzohn said, voice pitched low. "All you need to do is show up and eat." He nodded toward one of the doors leading off the room. "You don't have to stay here if you don't want to, but you're more than welcome. Bunk's through there." He glanced at Malcolm's bandaged hand, still clenched around the cup. "We have a medic, clean that up at least."

With that, the man stood and left without a backward glance.

x-x

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	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks so much for your comments and reviews. _

x-x

Malcolm stared at the door leading to the sleeping quarters, where the medic's station probably was. He felt like he'd been staring at a lot of doors lately, and supposed that there was some grand metaphor behind all that, but he could be arsed to bother with the analysis.

He should probably just leave, but Dzohn had made a good point: he should at least get his hand treated. It would be better to get it checked here than let it get infected and end up in hospital. Or worse. And Dzohn had promised there would be no questions.

So he pushed open the door and stepped through. Asking the first person he saw where the medic was, he was pointed to a nearby open door.

When he entered the small room, the lone person inside looked up from a device on her desk and nodded in acknowledgement. "Have a seat," she said, her eyes already back on her work as he settled into the chair beside her desk. She tapped a few keys, and ran a hand through dark hair. "There," she said. "That'll run for a while." She gave him a small smile. "What can I help you with?"

He lifted his bandaged hand and, before he could even say a word, she was already bustling over it, peeling back the grubby bandage with an empathic hiss. Malcolm looked at the swollen palm, turning away and ignoring the pain as she did her work.

She cleaned it carefully and sealed a bandage over the injury. Catching his eye, she said, "I'd like to give you an injection against the infection. Are you allergic to anything?"

Malcolm shook his head, and she answered with a quick jab to his palm.

Eyes still on her task, she said, "Can I ask your name?" When Malcolm didn't answer, she looked up. "It's all right if you don't want to tell me. It just makes it easier, if I have something I can call you."

Malcolm hadn't been there long enough to know what was and wasn't a common male name. "What name do you like?" he asked.

She studied him for a moment. "Dusan." She began putting the bandages and other materials away. "It means 'spirit'." Finishing her work, she looked up at him, her smile lighting her brown eyes. "I'm Ryba, which means nothing so nice."

Malcolm ran through the translations in his head. "Fish?" he finally asked, surprised.

Ryba put on a mock-offended air. "It's a very common name." The device on her desk gave a sharp 'chirp', and Ryba glanced down at it. "I have to take this."

Malcolm stood. Just as he was about to leave, he heard Ryba's voice. "Dusan." He turned back to her and saw her typing into the device in her hand. Attention focused there, she said, "There are showers..." and she waved her free hand to the right.

He nodded even though she wasn't looking at him, and he could feel himself blushing as he left the room. He was probably pretty rank, no doubt. He was certainly filthy. And the very idea of a shower...

x-x

Malcolm let the water wash over him, glorying in the sensation. It'd been days - no, longer. Probably since Enterprise since he'd had a water-shower, and since... maybe a week since he'd used the sonic shower on that tramp steamer. He ran hands through his wet hair, pushing it back from his face as water streamed down and steam came up to meet him.

It was a small cubicle, just big enough for one person, the frosted glass sides offering some measure of privacy in the large public washroom. Hearing a click over the thrum of the water, he realised that his clothes were done. Following the pictographs on the wall, he'd put his clothing, jacket and all, into the little device outside the shower area that somehow magically cleaned the fabric without need of water or any obvious soap he'd been able to identify. Trip'd probably love it.

His hands froze at the thought of Trip. Shaking his head, he stepped from the shower and it shut off behind him. He felt a soft 'puff', and jets of air hit his body, surrounding him in warmth as they dried him, driving away his thoughts of Trip, and Enterprise, and home.

Dead on his feet, he slowly slid back into his clothing. It was late, and he was in no real hurry: he had no place to go. Sinking onto a bench with boots in hand, he leaned back against the wall and stared at nothing, letting his eyes unfocus. He'd leave in a moment; he just needed a minute.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he heard someone step beside him. A soft voice said, "Number seven's available," and he felt a hand at his elbow, helping him up. Stumbling forward, he found himself sinking down onto a mattress, footwear still in hand. Putting the boots between the pillow and wall for safe-keeping, he pulled up the blanket and let himself go.

x-x

Malcolm woke in bed with blankets twisted around him. Heart thrumming, sweat cooling on his skin, he knew he had dreamt, but the images were already fading.

His eyes snapped open when he heard movement nearby. It took a panicked moment for him to get his bearings. The shelter. He didn't remember falling asleep. He had no idea of how he'd ended up in this bed.

Taking in the soft grey light filtering through the windows on the far wall, he realised that he'd slept through until morning.

Pushing away the blankets, he sat and pulled on his boots, consciously avoiding the glances from the men around him. The room was fairly large, several rows of bunks taking up most of the space, most of them filled with men, like him, who were in the process of waking. Most of whom, for some unknowable reason, kept throwing glances his way. It was making him edgy. Well, technically edgier, because he could still feel the tension of the nightmares thrumming through his body.

Heading for the bathroom, he felt a hand on his arm and pulled away roughly. He'd already taken a couple of steps backwards, hands raised in aggression or defence, before he realised that it was the medic from the night before. Ryba.

"Dusan, it's just me," she said quickly, eyes wide with alarm.

Malcolm winced. "Sorry." He rubbed a rough hand over his face, trying to wipe away the night.

"Are you all right?" she asked, frowning, her eyes frankly evaluating his condition. "One of the men said that you were yelling."

Malcolm nodded, realising the reason why the others had been staring at him. "Yes, it was..." He paused a moment and shrugged. "Dreams."

At least he didn't remember the dream, for which he was grateful. But there was no way he could spend another night here. The last thing he wanted to do was call notice to himself, and if he was the one disturbing the others' sleep, he would become known. That was not what he wanted.

"We offer counselling," Ryba said, but Malcolm shook his head.

They stood in silence for a moment, Malcolm refusing to say more, to give more of himself away. She already knew enough - too much. It was time for him to leave.

"All right," Ryba finally said. "But..."

Shaking his head again, Malcolm walked away. That's all he needed - someone trying to mess with his head. It was already messed up enough. And he certainly didn't want people to get to know him; not even people like Ryba and Dzohn, who seemed to have no ulterior motive. After all, the more traces he left, the more likely it was he'd be found by Enterprise.

Entering the washroom, he faced himself in the mirror above one of the sinks. Perhaps having Enterprise find him wouldn't be so bad. He certainly was not afraid to face justice. It was only right he be punished for what he'd done. His brow creased. What he thought he'd done.

He turned on the tap and splashed his face with water.

At this point he was AWOL, a deserter as well as a traitor. He'd end up in the brig at first, and later, most likely, prison. So long as they kept him locked up, Hoshi and Trip would be safe. Perhaps he could go back.

Drying his face, he stared into his own eyes. No. They'd already confined him to quarters, and he'd escaped. He smiled coldly. After all, he was the damned security officer. He could get out of his own room quite easily, and the brig to him was not much more secure - after all, he'd practically designed the thing.

There was no way, with him on the ship, that they'd be safe. He could not return.

x-x

Malcolm spent the next day and night on the street. Keeping himself in almost constant motion, he tried to decide what to do next. He'd come to this planet out of a desperate need to get away, to give himself some time alone to think. Now that he was here, he realised that he had absolutely no idea of what he should do.

Hungry and exhausted, he finally settled across the street from that restaurant again, watching patrons as they entered and left. He just needed to rest for a moment before he went over there and... and what? He didn't exactly have working papers, so he couldn't ask for a job. He wasn't quite desperate enough to ask for a hand-out. And he apparently wasn't willing to steal.

Closing his eyes, he pulled his jacket more tightly around him and leaned back against the wall. Now what? He'd traded the last of his goods, so he had no way to leave the planet. The only things he had left to him were his mind and body, and he did believe that his mind was too... too damaged. He wasn't sure that he could trust...

That left his body.

His eyes flashed open. He was shocked that he'd consider what he was considering. On the trip there, some had offered payment for...favours. But he'd refused.

He shut his eyes against the thought. This was not what he'd wanted his life to be. He was so far from where he'd expected; where he'd been only a few weeks ago. How had he ended up here?

x-x

_Ach, poor Malcolm! _

_Please leave a comment and let me know what you think of this so far. Thanks!_


	7. Chapter 7

_Thank you all so much for reading this, and especially those who've left me comments and reviews. This is, sadly, the final chapter. _

x-x

"Malcolm?"

Malcolm opened his eyes and realised that he'd been sleeping. Sitting upright, propped on a wall, and in public, he'd been sleeping.

Then he recognized what had woken him, and he turned quickly, scrambling back and ready to defend himself or run. Someone had... He froze when he saw who was sitting beside him: Trip.

"Hey, hey, hey. No, no," Trip said, palms up and out.

Malcolm's frantic eyes traced Trip's form, looking for signs of injury under the uniform. But that had been weeks ago, now.

"Malcolm?" Trip asked once more, his expression showing his concern. He reached out and touched Malcolm's arm, but Malcolm twitched away.

Why was Trip there? Didn't the man know that Malcolm had attacked him? That he was dangerous?

Trip frowned and lowered his hand. "We've been searching for you for weeks," he said.

Malcolm managed to respond with a question. "How'd you find me?"

Trip smiled wryly. "You didn't make it easy, let me tell you. Took a while. Once we traced you to this place, we started checking hospitals, mor..." He stopped himself. "When I checked the shelter here in town, they turned me away."

Malcolm frowned in confusion. "So how did you?"

"One of the employees came out after I'd left. She said she was worried about you..."

Malcolm turned away angrily. Ryba. He felt oddly betrayed.

"Malcolm, you need to come back."

Malcolm turned back to Trip and snarled, "No."

"If it's because you'll be brought up on charges -

"I can't go back!" Malcolm said, practically shouting. It would be too bloody dangerous. And... He jumped up and started walking down the crowded pavement, his mind racing. He felt Trip fall in beside him, keeping with his hurried pace. Malcolm ignored him, thinking back to what had happened on Enterprise. He felt so betrayed. They'd never...

Why would they think he'd just give in like that? It was unlike him, wasn't it? Who was he in their eyes, that they'd think he'd...

If Trip had done the same, or thought he'd done the same, Malcolm would assume that he'd been tortured or drugged or beaten so badly that he'd had no choice, even if all evidence said otherwise. What was different here?

Archer he could understand. The man had changed after the Xindi had attacked Earth. He'd been blinded, unable to see anything but the Xindi. But Trip? He'd thought they were friends. So he decided to ask. Stopping so quickly that Trip almost fell, he turned on his friend. "Do you think I'm a traitor?"

Trip tried to break in. "No, I -

"How could you think...?" Malcolm continued, speaking right over him. He paused only when someone bumped him with a softly muttered apology, and something that Trip had said to him on the ship came back to him. Something he'd forgotten.

On one of his first days in sickbay after he'd been found, Trip had said that trading their two lives, his and Hoshi's, wasn't worth it, in exchange for the whole of Earth. "After what the Xindi did to my sister," he'd spat, "How could you?"

Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest, holding himself tightly. "I would never, ever..." He shook his head. "I would never just give that information away. They..." He let his voice drift away, thinking about the torture. That blue ball. And the drugs.

...Two aft cannon, four impulse torpedo launchers, four sub-warp impulse engines...

He shut his eyes against the memories.

Trip pulled him aside and against the nearest building, away from the flow of pedestrian traffic. "I know that now." Malcolm opened his eyes, and Trip continued. "I knew as soon as we discovered that you'd left that you were not all right, that something was wrong. Then, when we found the knife, and the blood..."

"Did I hurt you?" Malcolm asked, his voice cracking.

"What?" Trip asked, eyes wide in surprise. "When? No."

"I thought..." Malcolm watched the flow of people moving past them. "I tried to hurt Hoshi. I would have, if I hadn't woken up."

"No -" was all Trip managed to get in before Malcolm shook his head. How could Trip believe that he wouldn't have hurt her? He'd intended to; he'd stood outside her quarters, knife in hand. How could Trip believe that he wouldn't try again, attack Trip or Hoshi in the midst of some waking-nightmare?

How could Trip believe when Malcolm himself couldn't?

"It wasn't your fault," Trip said, his voice low and quiet.

"I stole a shuttle," Malcolm said firmly. "I went AWOL." He met Trip's gaze.

"No. The captain..." Trip shook his head. "I mean... Phlox..." Trip sighed, and looked at him frankly. "I think all this is related."

"Related?"

"To the torture, to what they'd done to you, what you'd had to do."

"You think I've cracked," Malcolm said, grimacing. At the look on Trip's face, he realised the truth of it. "You do, don't you?"

Trip cocked his head. "I think your experiences have... and the drugs and stuff, it's messed you up." He tried to smile, but it came out as more of a wince. "You're not exactly acting like yourself."

Malcolm looked down at himself, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "I suppose I'm not. No."

Trip stepped a bit closer and grasped Malcolm's arm tentatively. "And you weren't, back on the ship, and I'm sorry that I didn't see that. I'm sorry that I didn't believe you. Believe in you. It was so unlike you, but I..." He dropped his hand. "At the same time, it was the _Xindi_," he said, emphasising that last word. "I'm not sure that I was seeing things that clearly myself." Trip did smile, this time successfully, although his eyes held a nasty edge. "We found where you'd been held."

"What?" Malcolm asked, heart racing.

Trip nodded. "We found their recordings. That's how we know about the torture, what they did to you."

Malcolm rubbed the back of his hand absently, remembering the scars. "But -

"They had these lovely little devices that erased whatever physical traces they'd left." Trip paused. When he continued, his voice shook. "Ends up they didn't release you. You got yourself out. Strangled one of your captors, grabbed his weapon and killed another."

Malcolm watched the flow of people passing them on the street, and considered what Trip had said. It directly paralleled what he'd acted out in his dreams, but he didn't actually remember the events themselves. It was if that area of his memory was blocked off.

Just as well.

"Did I tell them...?" he heard himself ask, his voice soft, almost lost in the noise of the crowd around them. He sagged against the wall behind him.

"It doesn't matter," Trip replied, matching his tone.

At that, Malcolm turned to his friend, shocked.

"The info never got out. You killed them before they'd completed their - " Trip cut himself off with a grimace and looked away. "Before they had a chance to send it."

Malcolm closed his eyes in relief.

After a moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Come home, Malcolm."

He couldn't speak, so instead, he simply nodded.

x-x

The title, "Leave Your Home Behind, Lad", is from A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Housman.

_Please review and let me know what you thought of this piece. Thank you!_


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